scribal_goddess: (Default)

The things which are in this world are finite. Perhaps something essential, an inner fire, was removed as the fruits came through your envelope? Or maybe I do not have eyes that can see the thin sheen of beauty over the mechanical surface of the universe anymore.

Or maybe what I have done has leached the world of color, just as it has smothered the house.

All that I had gained, all that I had built, it’s… gone.

The futile cardboard skins of instant dinners have returned to the refrigerator, replacing the variety of foodstuffs and persistent salami. The stacks of books have given way to shelves of emptiness, a neat and orderly shelving of tome after tome of blank pages. The smug yellowness of the house, the oily beigeness of its air, is no longer a part of the knowing emptiness. It is simply silent.

The windows do not look out on the same gardens, or any gardens at all. There is no flickering change in the corner of my eye, no gleam of other sunlight, and in fact no weather at all.

I suspect that I may have killed the house. )
scribal_goddess: (Default)



Hello, Kiana. Thank you for the fruits – at least I assume that’s what they were. At the moment they look a bit like shriveled hearts. Perhaps they will also become trees. Certainly I don’t think I can eat them, even if it would be a surprisingly appropriate image.

I think that if the chess board is worth something, you should fix the roof, if it needs it. A small leak can sicken a house from the inside out. So can bad water, and termites crawling up into the heart of the house, so I suppose it is good that you have started to fix the garden, so that things can grow there instead of simply dying.

Your friend may not have a house, or be had by one, but she seems the sort who a house might want to keep. The thinking kind of person, someone who can see beyond other people’s peeling wallpaper shells.

To answer what I think may be your most important question: I have been infinity. For each person I have been, there are ten more behind those memories, and another ten, and another ten, stretching on and on. I do not have a beginning. The doors prevent me from having an end. Perhaps the mathematicians will say that I loop back around and contain myself, but whether I am a chorus of ghosts or a snarl in the fabric of the universe, I have always, to my knowledge, been myself.

That self just hasn't always been the same. )
scribal_goddess: (Default)



There are things I dare not write, and send to be seen and known and judged. Not yet. 

Hello House. I hear you. Perhaps – this is hard to say, with a voice that sounds unlike my thoughts – perhaps you can do me another favor? I know I live within you like a clownfish in an anemone, and that without your help I would not have lasted this long. Do houses even do that weird, guilt-tripping thing about giving and receiving help? Do you resent me rattling between your walls and leaving the doors open all the time?



Are you a shiny oyster shell, doomed to crack? And am I the smear of slime and muscle inside, or a pearl formed around an irritating grain of sand?

I have to go to the Night Garden again. It will not be pleasant, but I need to know. To breathe the watchful air and to sift the silence through my fingers. I must pin myself in place and be without this fear, this watching, never able to close a door behind me for fear of what it might become. The night garden could change that, if the words burned in the back of my brain are true.

If I am right –

I can’t be wrong.

* * *

This interlude is part of The Pen Pal Project. Anya's two pen pals are Kiana Moss and Seth Morrigan. The masterpost for Instant Messages In A Bottle is here

scribal_goddess: (scribbles)

Kiana, I cannot give you time.

It would fit in an envelope but I am sure it would seep out through the cracks. I have tried, in many different lives, to give time, to beg and borrow and steal it, for every possible reason. I have tried desperation, generosity, jealousy, selfishness, revenge, grief. But in every life, the doors come, and I could not bargain with fate.

I have enclosed something else )

***
As always, this is part of the Pen Pal Project. Xantheanmar’s most recent letter from Kiana Moss can be found here, and my masterpost of letters, in chronological order (a very important order to have,) can be found here.

Shoutout to one of many thousands of GIMP tutorials I have consumed over the years, since I now know how to make fog.
scribal_goddess: (scribbles)
I admit that if I were not receiving letters in two different ways, there would be some potential for confusion if they were unsigned.

Since your letter arrived on my pillow along with a scattering of seeds, it was instantly distinguishable. My other correspondence arrives via computer.
The statuette that you received along with the letter and the box was not enclosed by me, so I am forced to conclude that it was either sent by my house, or a gift to you from yours. Your enclosure appears to have been exchanged for the shower of seeds that are currently infesting my bedsheets.


I do not intend to complain – the process of correspondence between our places of being is fascinating.
Where I am there are no lawns to mow )


****
Author's Note: As always, this is part of The Pen Pal Project. A masterpost of my entries is here. This letter is in response to Xantheanmar's latest letter by Kiana Moss, Gathering Flowers.

Sun Gravy

Mar. 5th, 2017 04:45 pm
scribal_goddess: (scribbles)
Hello.

I am here.


At least – I think what I did has worked. Perhaps.

The letter appeared when my back was turned, tossed on the floor, in the tangled sunlight of the windows in the greasy beige afternoon.


This is not a reflection on the quality of your letter )

Author's Note: This is a response to Kiana's Letter. These letters are part of the Pen Pal Project, so they won't make sense if you don't read both halves! A convenient masterpost of my letters and their recipients' responses is here.

Anechoic

Feb. 28th, 2017 09:22 pm
scribal_goddess: (scribbles)

Hello Seth,

There is not simply a place you can go to, to find a door. There have been lives where I have tried.

Doors usually come at the end of all things, when there is no other way out, or forward, or through.

Sometimes they are an omen. Sometimes they do not come until I have begged and pleaded and clawed the walls until my fingernails are worn down to the nub.

Sometimes there is even further to fall than that.

I feel better now. )



Author's Note: This is a response to Seth's Letter. These letters are part of the Pen Pal Project, so they won't make sense if you don't read both halves! A convenient masterpost of my letters and their recipients' responses is here.

Also, warning: the first photo in this post is a flashing gif, so be warned. I can put up an alternate post with the gif at one fifth the speed or something (on the theory that it woudn't trigger anything bad if it were slow) if anyone asks for it, it's no trouble at all. Or I can put it up with the original unanimated picture.

scribal_goddess: (scribbles)

You have to understand, they’re not ordinary doors.

There are many doors and drawers and other hinged pieces of wood over holes in walls, like empty eyelids, that exist every day. They stand where they should be, in walls, silent and concealing. Anyone can open them. Anything could be behind them, so that the simple act of walking through could change your life, but walking through one will not dissolve you and reform you anew.

When I speak of doors they are not metaphorical. )



This is a reply to Seth's most recent letter to Anya.

If you've missed a letter, head for the masterpost.

Everyone else's letters are available at the Pen Pal Project. Read them.

scribal_goddess: (scribbles)


Instant Messages in a Bottle
Anya is being kept by a yellow house with a smug porch. The people on the other side of the computer screen are real. Probably. At least she’s determined to proceed with that assumption, because it is good to not be alone… especially since she’s not certain what the house wants from her, or what is going on outside the windows.

There aren’t any birds here.

Anya’s Profile: Instant Messages In A Bottle

First match: Seth’s Profile
Letter One (to Seth): The Tuesday Garden

Seth: Inside the Walls
Letter Two (to Seth): Gaps in the Web

Seth: Caramel Centers
Letter Three (to Seth): Anechoic

Second Match: Kiana Moss
Kiana: A Letter to Anya
Letter Four (to Kiana): Sun Gravy

Kiana: Gathering Flowers
Letter Five (to Kiana): The Persistence of Salami 

Kiana: Planting Seeds
Letter Six (to Kiana): Saponification


Seth: Uncracked
Letter Seven (to Seth): Corona of Teeth

Kiana: Glow Garden
Letter Eight (to Kiana): Telephone Whispers


Interlude: Into the Night Garden
Letter eight (to Seth, unprompted): Unshelled

Kiana: Chess
Letter Nine (to Kiana): People I Have Been

 

Headquarters of The Pen Pal Project

scribal_goddess: (scribbles)

Hello Seth,
The computer showed me your letter, and I assume this means we have been matched as pen pals. What’s it like, living with another person? I mean, I’ve done it before, in another life, but the past is thinner than the present.



You say that the sun is trying to eat you. I crawled out the window into the Tuesday garden, where the sun was shining brightly, just this morning to see if I could tell if my sun was hungry. I stood for a long time with my eyes closed, every part of me floating up but my feet stuck on the earth, all my weight pinned against the soles, bare and cool in the crying grass, while the rest of me soaked up warmth like a sponge. But the sun did not eat me. My weight returned, and I sat and listened to a tree’s heartbeat for a while.

Every door in the house was where it should be )


***

Author's note: This second entry in the Pen Pal Project is a direct response to Seth's profile, which can be found here. Anya's profile is here.

scribal_goddess: (scribbles)



Welcome to the Pen Pal Project! We are dedicated to fostering communication and connectivity between all people, using modern technology to create a sense of community. Please answer the following questions in detail, to ensure that we are best able to match you with your new correspondent or correspondents.

Name
: Anya

Select your age bracket: Unsure

Profession: I am being kept by a house with yellow walls and a smug porch. It is a tidy house, and I do not believe it means me harm, even if there are poisonous mushrooms in the cellar. I did not choose to be here, but I came in through the attic door and the crater walls are high around me.



I believe the house is lonely.

How many pen pals are you interested in acquiring? )

***

Author's note: In a fit of sanity (blame [livejournal.com profile] medleymisty) I joined the Pen Pal Project! Anya is already partnered up with Seth Morrigan, whose entries you can read here.

If you would like to step through a door and be someone else, or maybe just be kept by a house for a while, stay tuned!

Profile

scribal_goddess: (Default)
scribal_goddess

July 2017

S M T W T F S
      1
2345678
9101112131415
161718 19202122
23242526272829
3031     

Syndicate

RSS Atom

Style Credit

Expand Cut Tags

No cut tags
Page generated Sep. 21st, 2017 08:46 am
Powered by Dreamwidth Studios